


To Where the Wind Blows

by NathanieloftheSky



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, I have no idea why I added magic I just couldn't help myself, I'm experimenting with how I write magic, M/M, rosencrantz thinks everything is a sex joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 16:04:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathanieloftheSky/pseuds/NathanieloftheSky
Summary: Hamlet rewritten as a modern, magic au and people still make bad choices but it may work out. Maybe.





	1. The Hunter

Hamlet closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, staring at the light shining through the leaves of newly sprouted plants on his windowsill. If he focused enough, the sound of laughter and festivities faded away into absolute silence. He could hear his own breathing, his heartbeat, and the anger that threatened to break loose. The house wasn't large enough to separate himself from everything that transpired. 

“Once upon a time,” a voice behind him began, causing him to smile in spite of himself, “there lived a young Danish prince with a heart of gold. He lived through tragedy upon tragedy, yet never waivered, remaining the kind and loving prince that he was. One day, his mother decided to get married. The young prince was miserable and locked himself in his room, guarded by a great, fierce dragon.”

“Rex is a coward and you know it, Horatio,” Hamlet mumbled into his comforter. 

“It was up to the brave knight to rescue the prince from his misery and bring happiness to the kingdom once again.” Horatio laughed, still out of view. “He battled the dragon, swaying the fierce beast to let him pass with a tasty treat. He opened the door to find the prince fast asleep. Only true love’s kiss could break the sad spell that had befallen the beloved prince.”

“Don't you dare.” Hamlet warned as he felt the mattress weigh down. 

“Ah, but my lord, I must break the spell!” Hamlet could feel Horatio’s breath against his neck and then a flurry of tiny, ticklish kisses—the final straw.

He flipped over, “Oh, kiss me properly you dummy.”

“Feel better?” Horatio asked, pulling Hamlet up. “You tell the worst stories.”

“Haha, well I'm not going to college for children's literature.”

“Clearly. I mean your characters were so underdeveloped and the queen is an evil witch.”

“I see,” Horatio tapped the side of his face twice before pointing, “I'll add that next time.”

Hamlet hummed. He brushed a bit of hair behind Horatio’s ear and planted a kiss on his nose. “You and your emo hair.”

“I think it's more 2000s skater, but go off.”

“I'm gonna light a candle,” Hamlet moved to get up, but Horatio stopped him. 

“And what? Have it go out again?”

“Okay, that happened once. ” Hamlet scowled. 

“ _ Five _ times. I counted  _ five _ .” Horatio laughed. 

“It sooooo did not.”

“It did. So tell me, are you the wind or the light, because both react so violently when you get, well, you know?”

“As my father used to say, I am life itself.” Hamlet signed, “Yet everything withers away.”

“Maybe not,” Horatio cupped Hamlet’s hands in his own and kissed them. 

Hamlet could feel something wiggle beneath his palms. He opened them to find a luminescent, indigo butterfly fluttering away into nothing. 

“Life cannot be created, only imitated.” Horatio began, his voice sounding almost weary. “But life can be swayed by imitation, or perhaps by kindness. If one respects nature, one can borrow from nature or be gifted something wondrous.”

“I already know this,” Hamlet sighed and leaned into Horatio to hear his voice vibrate in his chest.

“If a mother is kind and loving,” Horatio continued,” nature may gift her unborn child magic from that love. If a father is kind and loving, nature may allow the child to borrow a piece of it, or perhaps let that child become a friend to nature. Sometimes, people do great deeds toward nature and is given a great deal of influence over nature and life itself. Sometimes, that deed is so great that that influence is passed down. Sometimes, people get nothing and are born with nothing, or lose it all. Hamlet, your influence is as strong as your father's but your mother’s love has withered by his demise. Your pain is nature's pain. You once had the power to turn even imitation into life and your fear has lost that. You may never gain the respect for your family that has been lost, but why does that matter? You are so much more than what others think of you and you have people who love you dearly.”

“I can't gain that back. I can't do anything great.”

“And? Even the little things count towards something great. Every little kindness counts, even if it's silly or embarrassing.”

Hamlet closed his eyes and took another deep breath. He felt Horatio’s warmth surround him.

“You've been on edge lately,” Hamlet whispered.

“Really? Since when?” His voice rumbled like thunder in the distance. 

“Since a few nights ago. You went out with a couple guys from high school to help with Christmas shopping and you all acted like you wanted to tell me something but couldn't. They just ran off.”

Horatio sighed sharply, almost as if it hurt to breathe. “We were going to, but they chickened out. I mean, I did too. Something kept nagging that I should have told you—like it was my destiny or something to tell you with them, but I didn't.”

“Tell me what?” Hamlet looked up. 

“I, well, okay,” he took a deep breath, “we were at the old gas station, talking with a few guys who became police officers, you'd know them if you saw then. They said they kept seeing shit here and got a few calls, but it seemed like some trick a kid would play.  _ Magic _ , they said, like a  _ ghost _ . We laughed a little and they had to return to their station, something about a change in shift. It was normal, you know? Drinking and smoking, filling up an old car—something out of a horror film or coming of age novel. What can I say? We were at a gas station at night! These places are always sketchy, even for those with magic.”

“You're rambling.”

“I was scared, Hamlet. I still am.” Horatio subconsciously tightened his hug a bit, as if Hamlet would disappear. “At first I thought it was my imagination or something I conjured up, but they saw it too. They saw it too. Over by the broken down pick up was a guy in a well tailored suit, smoking a cigar. I couldn't see his face but Hamlet? I knew. I knew right away. He looked over as if to acknowledge me, saw the others and then just faded into nothing. I've never seen anything disappear like that.”

“Not like your magic?”

“He looked almost exactly like I remember him and I could see him shifting particle by particle. It wasn't magic, Hamlet, it was life in its very essence, like something you could make but somehow far more real than that. It was fucking freaky.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I would have told you regardless. Maybe not then, maybe not now, but eventually. Eventually I would tell you. I just felt that if I told you then, something bad would happen to you. You'd try to go off alone and get hit by a car or fall of a cliff.”

“You have the worst imagination,” Hamlet laughed a little but then swallowed. “It was the gas station they found him at, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“Will you take me? Tonight?” 

“Will you try and go alone?” 

“No,” Hamlet heard footsteps coming up the stairs. 

“Then yes.” Horatio nodded and they let go, sliding to opposite parts of the bed. 

The door swung open wide and two young men waltzed in, one proudly standing with his hands on his hips. 

“Are you two having  _ sex _ ?!” He wiggled his finger and the two on the bed laughed with relief. 

“Guildenstern, Rosencrantz, what are you two doing here?”

“We have been summoned to the royal castle to serve you, my lord.” Rosencrantz bowed deeply, only to be pushed over by Guildenstern. “Hey,” Rosencrantz gave a hearty laugh as he stumbled to the ground.

“I am not royalty,” Hamlet laughed. 

“Well, you've always been a pain in the ass to me,” Horatio laughed. 

Rosencrantz gasped, “Was that a sex joke?!” 

Guildenstern rubbed his temples, “I'm sorry he's such a dumbass. We had a long conversation in the taxi before we got here.”

“We are not having sex,” Horatio gave a nervous laugh. 

“Well, you're missing out. Guildenstern and I have been a  _ lot _ of sex.”

“Rosencrantz! What the fuck!” Guildenstern’s face went red. 

“IIIIII’m the fuck.” Rosencrantz sat up and stayed down, quite amused with himself.

“So what have you two been up to?” Guildenstern leaned on the doorframe. 

“Oh, just catching up.” Horatio waved his hand. “I mean, I came into town for the wedding.”

“I thought you were here longer?” Rosencrantz frowned. 

“Nope,” Horatio shook his head. 

“He's been here since this morning,” Hamlet offered and the other two took it. 

“Any plans later?” Guildenstern asked, “We were thinking of going to see a new movie or out to dinner or something.”

“We'll pass.” Hamlet smiled. 

Rosencrantz gave another dramatic gasp, “He's using plural. He said ‘We'll’ and you  _ know _ what that means. They  _ are _ dating!”

“Are  _ not _ !” Hamlet shouted. 

“Are too!” 

“Are not,” Horatio sighed. 

“Then we need to set you two up, maybe a double date.”

“No.” Hamlet crossed his arms. 

“Fine, fine.” Rosencrantz held his hands up and stood, heading towards the door. “But me and Guildenstern are going to go watch the fireworks sooooo bye.”

“Hey, since when do you tell me what to do?” Guildenstern frowned, following Rosencrantz out the door. 

“That's it!” Hamlet shrieked, leaping from the bed. 

“Whaaaat?” 

“We'll sneak out during the fireworks!”

“I don't want to go back to that place.” Horatio flopped back and stared at the ceiling.

“Please,” Hamlet pouted, “you said you would.”

“I'll grab my shoes.” Horatio sighed and rolled out of bed. “You better bring a coat this time.”

They scampered towards the front of the house, slipping on their shoes and grabbing the house key. Rex, Hamlet’s large pitbull, slept soundly by the door. So, like normal people, they opened the window and snuck out that way. The air was fresh and crisp like a york patty or perhaps a bag of peas taken from the freezer to stick your face in because you have nothing else to do with your life and no one else is going to eat them anyways.

“You parked far away?” 

“At your Uncle's request.” Horatio shrugged and they held close to the edge of the woods. 

“Thank god no one is in the drive,” Hamlet laughed as they ran into the open street. Snow covered part of the large open area, illuminated by the stars above them and the old street lamps that kept warm with fliers of missing dogs and yard sales. 

When they got to the car, a sudden chill ran up their spines. With a shared look the two drove on into the night. Hamlet turned on the radio. 

“So why didn't you want them to know we're dating?” Horatio asked, eyes glued to the road.

“Rosencrantz can never keep a secret and Guildenstern, as much as I trust the guy, well I don't  _ know  _ him well enough. Why didn't you want them to know you've been here a long time?”

“Because Guildenstern will jump to conclusions but never tell you what he thought. He would tell Rosencrantz, and Rosencrantz likes to make those conclusions  _ worse _ and then  _ spread them _ .” Horatio laughed, but his smile faded as he glanced in the mirror. 

“What's wrong?” Hamlet shut off the radio. 

“I just thought…”

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Horatio mumbled.

“You were freaking me out.” Hamlet gave a small laugh and looked forward, but he kept watching Horatio glance back. Suddenly, he heard Horatio suck in air, eyes staring in the back as if someone were sitting there, but Hamlet saw no one. 

“Dude? What are you—LOOK OUT!” Hamlet looked ahead just in time to see a man standing in the middle of the road. Horatio slammed on the breaks, ripping his eyes back to the road. 

“I'm sorry,” Horatio kept mumbling. 

“Put the car in park.” Hamlet commanded. He unbuckled himself without taking his eyes off the man in the road and stepped out the car. Horatio did what he was told and took the keys out of the ignition. “Hamlet, wait.”

“It looks like my father.” Hamlet took a few steps forward. 

“That doesn't mean it is.” Horatio grabbed his arm. The ghost began to walk into the woods. 

“I need to—” Hamlet didn't continue his thought. Instead he ran. 

“Hamlet!” Horatio called after, but Hamlet was long gone.


	2. The Throne of Man

At first, the sticks and thorny leaves caught against his skin, ripping it open, but only when his blood actually touched the forest floor did the plants open up a path for him. Behind him they bowed, in front the arched like a grand castle hall. Even the fallen leaves scattered out of his way. He found himself in a rather familiar place, though he never saw a place like it.

He stopped. Before him was a throne room, the moon shining through the cracks of the trees, appearing like fire in the orbs of water that floated about the room. The strange figure sat in a large throne, flowers blooming around him. He looked like a king despite his modern suit. 

“Who are you?” Hamlet stood before him, almost like a child. 

“Look into your mind and heart. I will not answer what you already know.”

“Okay,” Hamlet took a deep breath and held out his hand, “how many fingers am I holding up?” 

“Four. You do not believe your thumb is a finger.”

Hamlet gasped, “Dad, it is you.” He fell to his knees, tears beginning to stream down his face.

“My brother has a magic few posses and his has abused the gift that was given to him. Avenge me.”

“I never saw him use magic—”

“Remember the story you loved as a child and remember.”

“Dad, I don't understand.” Hamlet stood up, shaking. 

“Remember and avenge me.”

“Wait, don't go.” Hamlet took a few steps forward and staggered where he stood, reaching out to his father, but the ghost disappeared and the forest returned to normal, a large oak where he once stood. 

“I love you,” Hamlet whispered and stumbled backwards, but a pair of hands caught him. 

“Hamlet? What happened? Why are you—”

Hamlet turned and hugged Horatio, sobbing. 

“Nevermind,” he heard, “I'm here. Let's go back.”

“Horatio?”

“Yeah?” 

“Do you trust me?” 

“Of course,” Horatio stopped walking, “Why would I not?”

“Even if I spout nonsense?”

“Even so.”

“That was my father. My uncle killed him.”

“How?”

“I don't know yet. I just don't know.” Hamlet sighed. “I'm just tired.”

“Come on,” Horatio rubbed Hamlet’s back. He opened the palm of his hand and the indigo butterflies flew out, lightening the path ahead. 

They walked a bit before Hamlet spoke again. 

“We can't tell anyone, okay? Not even my mother.”

“Why not?” 

“I don't trust them. I can't trust them.”

“Do you trust me?” Horatio asked as they approached the car. 

“With my life.”

They got in, but Horatio scowled. “Something’s not right.”

“What do you mean?”

The ignition won't turn. The car would even make a sound.

“It's fucked. Completely fucked. We have to walk but even that makes me anxious.”

“Why?” 

Horatio gave him look. “Hamlet.”

“Horatio”

“It is the night.”

“How observant.”

“We just saw a ghost and you fucking chased it into the woods.”

“Correct.”

“You found out your uncle murdered your father.”

“Correct.” 

“Now the car won't start or even sound like it can't start.”

“I believe so.”

Horatio paused and sighed heavily. “Get. Out. Of. The. Damn. Car.”

“Okay, okay,” Hamlet raised his hands as Rosencrantz once did and got out of the car. The cold air hit them like an invasion of ants crawling on their skin. They ran, fast and far. 

“Why are we running?” Hamlet asked, his breath glowing in the cold.

“Fuck, I could have sworn someone was following us.” Horatio skidded to a halt and looked around. The trees towered over them in the darkness, shutting out what little light they had. He could feel the hairs of his hands stand up as he tried to make out where they were. All they had to do was follow the road, but the road felt far more foreign than before. 

“Shit, it's happening again.” Hamlet panted, his eyes wider than before. 

“What? What do you see?” Horatio rushed to catch a collapsing Hamlet. 

“Horatio?” He called as if Horatio wasn't holding onto him. 

“Don't fuckin do this to me, Hamlet. Not here, not now.”

Hamlet began to stumble backwards before turning directly to Horatio. His face suddenly sprang into surprise and then to fear. 

“Swear, swear you won't tell anyone.”

“Hamlet,what the fuck is happening?” Horatio asked, his head jerked to the side and he saw the ghostly figure once more.

“Swear.” Hamlet’s voice merged with the ghost’s. 

“I swear, I swear. What the fuck?” Horatio took a few steps back and felt the blood rush through his veins. Wind blew harshly around them, pushing him around. 

The ghost nodded in acknowledgement before scattering with the wind. Hamlet collapsed again, this time too far for Horatio to reach.

“Let's just go home,” Horatio whispered, hoping his voice didn't shake like he thought it would. Their walk was silent and slow, and could not be over fast enough. 

No one greeted them at the door, all scattered or sleeping, and they stood without breath outside Hamlet’s room. 

“Stay with me,” Hamlet held onto Horatio’s hand, only receiving a nod in return. 

They didn't care too much towards hygiene or changing—they were far too weary and anxious for that. Instead, they crawled straight into bed, Horatio resting his head on Hamlet’s chest.

“We're fucked.” Horatio whispered, a laugh lifting his voice away from the deep fear that kept his eyes open long into the night. 

 


	3. To the Children Who Grow Up

Sunlight did not wake them, neither did the loud clattering about the house. It was, however, the dearest Rosencrantz that woke them. 

“Horatio, your car is fuuuucked.”

“Hmmm? What?” Horatio opened his eyes and sat up. 

“Your car? What happened to it? It was smoldering and flipped over! Did you two get in an accident or something?” Rosencrantz gained his energy simply by being awake. Horatio theorized he sapped it from the surrounding people, but Hamlet said no. Rosencrantz had the amount of magic of a squirrel, minimum if any. Guildenstern, however, was terribly unlucky and could only change the color of his eyes every three weeks. Involuntary, perhaps, but insignificant enough for people to take double takes or ignore it. 

“Why are you two cuddling? Are you dating? Did you have  _ sex _ ?”

“Jesus, not this early in the morning,” Hamlet moaned. 

“The car stopped working so we walked all the way back and collapsed from exhaustion. Hamlet still has his fucking shoes and coat on. You need to chill.” Horatio shook his head and got out of bed. “What do you want? Who let you in?”

“Oh, we're staying for a week or so. For you, of course.” Guildenstern replied.

“What?” Hamlet shot up. 

“Yeah, your un—” Guildenstern elbowed Rosencrantz discreetly. 

“Ophelia is here too! And Laertes, and Polonius, and some randos.” Rosencrantz began to list of people, “For the annual Christmas party! Remember?”

“Ah, shit.” Hamlet plopped back down into bed. Suddenly, Hamlet jumped out of bed. “Wait, Ophelia is here?”

“Yeah?” Guildenstern looked even more lost. 

“She has my old books. I gotta go!” Hamlet burst past them. 

“Hamlet! Wait!” Horatio sighed. “Every time. He could at least rebutton his damn shirt.”

“Why was it undone? Wink, wink.”

“Because he sleeps like a heathen. If you make another sex joke in my presence, I promise you that you will never speak again.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Hamlet, on the other hand, was running full force into Ophelia’s room. She turned around and shrieked, the birds that flapped around her turning to stone. 

“Do you have my books?” He ran to her bookshelf then threw open the closet. 

“Books? What books? Why are you dressed like that?” She backed up. 

“The books from when I was a kid. I  _ need _ them.”

“Hamlet what's going on? And those are packed away in the attic of my father's house.”

“Shit.”

“Hamlet, please tell me what's going on.”

Hamlet spun around and sighed, “I can't trust you.”

“You can't? Or won't? Hamlet, I just want to know why you look…well…”

“Well what?” 

“Like you've seen a ghost.” Ophelia whispered. She quietly sat down on her bed and cupped the stone birds in her hands, each turning back and flying off. Hamlet quietly lifted one and sat down in its place. He cupped it in his hands but the bird remained cold and gritty. 

“Will you talk to me?” 

“I know I shouldn't, but you always listened to me when I needed someone.” Hamlet gripped the bird. 

“I will always listen. I mean, you did help with those god awful emails to trick my father into thinking the two of us were straight and in love.”

He laughed a bit, “You know, Horatio is still up for the idea of us marrying and him marrying your girlfriend to keep it a secret for good.”

“Ah, she broke up with me months ago—didn't like the idea of me being bi.”

“Good for you, cutting ties with her.”

“Thanks, but what's happening with you?”

“I found out some things that I shouldn't know, and it is gnawing at me. If Horatio wasn't with me last night, I'd probably have gone insane.” Hamlet shook his head, “I'm losing myself, Ophelia. I'm losing myself and I fear that I won't gain it back. Everyone is acting like nothing is wrong at all, but their marriage was too fast. Far too fast.”

“You just need a little help. That's okay. You just need to ask and you know both Horatio and I will be there. Even my brother would if you reason with him. He looks up to you, you know.” Ophelia placed her hands around Hamlet’s and let the warmth flow through both of their hands. The bird moved around and they let it go, watching it fly about. 

“Yeah, just a little help,” Hamlet whispered, holding a feather in his hand. “Ophelia?” 

“I'm here.”

“What was my favorite story, growing up? Do you remember?” 

“You really forgot? It was Snow White.”

Hamlet sighed, “You are a lifesaver.”

“What did I do?”

“Gave me the information I needed.” Hamlet got up. “I just need to break every mirror in the house.”

“You what?” Ophelia sat there, confusion and amusement on her face, but Hamlet left with haste. 

She looked over on her nightstand at the photo she took last summer—Hamlet standing proudly beside her brother on a dock. Dragonflies buzzed around their heads—some Ophelia’s, some Hamlet’s—and Laertes was showing off his new haircut. Everything was different now, as if that summer day was dreamt up. Since his father's death, Hamlet stayed on edge, jumping at shadows and speaking like he didn't have time to stay in the present. He ran towards the future if only to escape his past and pretty soon, she thought, he would start speaking in tongues and lose everything he ever had. Laertes, on the other hand, grew his hair out as well as his pride, running off to college to live in the moment rather than see what the future unfolded. Perhaps he hated having nothing that Hamlet and Ophelia had. Perhaps he felt alone. But staring at the empty doorway, Ophelia felt more alone than before. 

She wouldn't let that change her. 


	4. The Seagull and the Pigeon with Two Heads

He did just that. Every mirror.

Horatio found him in the kitchen, the shattered glass fresh at his feet. He called out Hamlet’s name a few times, finally placing his hand on his back to get some sort of reaction. 

“You don't have to explain,” Horatio said, gently taking Hamlet’s hands in his own and examining the cuts and shards of glass still stuck in his skin. “Let's get you cleaned up and eat lunch okay?”

Hamlet nodded and followed Horatio to the bathroom.

“It's not the damn mirrors. I thought it would be the mirrors.”

“What about the mirrors?” Horatio inquired. He looked tired in the lighting, but Hamlet felt somewhere within him that he was the cause and it left him feeling even emptier. 

“My uncle's magic. It is not.” Hamlet shook his head and examined his newly wrapped hands. “What do you remember about the evil queen from Snow White?” 

“Well, she transformed into an old hag and gave Snow White a poisoned apple. I think it turned her teeth rainbow but that might have been an adaptation or kid spinoff I was reading.” Horatio shrugged. 

“Wait, the poison apple?” Hamlet’s eyes grew big. 

“Yeah?” 

“Why, why did she eat it?” 

“It was a gift.”

“You are a genius,” Hamlet smiled widely and kissed Horatio brashly. “I just need to figure out what that gift was.”

“Wasn't his birthday a few weeks before the?” Horatio gapled his mouth a bit. 

“Yeah, and he mostly received money.”

“What did your Uncle give him?”

“I'm thinking,” Hamlet growled, rubbing his temples, “A tie, I think, and matching cufflinks.”

“How could that kill him?”

“I don't know, but there was something else…” Hamlet grimaced then lit up, “Bluetooth.”

“Huh?”

“Can't you be killed if shit gets through your ear?”

“Not to my knowledge but it may be possible if the ear is damaged or something eats away at it.”

Hamlet tapped the side of his face a bit, almost mirroring Horatio. “What if it were magic?” 

“Magic?” 

“Magic poison. That's why I never saw my uncle use magic before. Because it's literally poison.”

Horatio laughed, “You're a little bit too happy about this.”

“I'm so close. Now I just need to figure out how I'm going to know for sure.” Hamlet grinned, but the ringing of Horatio’s phone distracted him. 

“Sorry, work.” Horatio shrugged and disappeared out the door. 

Hamlet sighed and looked into the broken mirror. “I need a mask for this, lest I am caught. But what to do?”

“Young Hamlet, what happened here?”

Hamlet spun around and looked into the face if an old man who probably once saw the birth of Nero, but that was, perhaps, debatable.

“Oh, you know,” Hamlet waved his hand about. 

“Do you remember me?” The old man lifted his head a bit, ask if something behind Hamlet bothered him.

“You are the new butler.”

“I am Polonius. I knew you when you were a baby.”

“So you were fired and now rehired. Okay,” Hamlet nodded, moving past him. He knew who Polonius was and didn't care. 

“No, I am an old friend of your parents.”

“Oh, so you owe them money.” Hamlet’s brain eyes felt tired from rolling them so much. 

“Hamlet, how are you feeling?” Polonius asked cautiously. 

“Well, I feel how one feels when they are feeling feelings.” Hamlet paused, suddenly feeling the urge to mess with the old man further. “Do you have a daughter?” 

Polonius’ expression shifted, “I do?”

“She shouldn't date boys and get married to a man. They are horrible, cruel people that corrupt whatever they touch.” Hamlet laughed a little as he ran his fingers across the spines of the books. Finally, he pulled a random book from the bookshelf. Opening it, he stared at the page, but Polonius wouldn't leave.

“What are you reading?”

“Words,” Hamlet replied, turning the book upside-down. “Words,” he said again, turning it twice, “Words.”

“What is the matter?” 

“I don't know, what's the matter with you?” 

“What is the book about.”

“Lies. Here he says that old men are corpses living with a lack of a brain and perception. That they speak far to long for having nothing to say.” Hamlet didn't look up. “Of course, such a point is believable to young men such as I.”

“Will you walk?” 

“Straight as I am or as the drunkard I am perceived as, though not even church wine has touched my lips without fizzling away as intangible magic does when left on its own.”

“Is that a no?” 

“Did it sound like a no?” Hamlet asked in response, locking eyes with the old man.

“Than I will be off.” Polonius lingered a while before heading towards the hallway, only to bump into Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. “He is in there.”

“Thank you,” Guildenstern nodded and led the way. 

“So you two return.” Hamlet closed his book, though he was only moving the letters around to show silhouettes.

“Like a bomb.”

“Boomerang,” Guildenstern corrected and received a raspberry in reply. 

“We are staying all week, remember?”

“Here? In the mansion?” Hamlet looked at Rosencrantz quizzically. 

“Yeah, it's big enough. Hey, what happened to you hands?” 

“Mishap.” 

“Really?” Guildenstern frowned. “Look, if you aren't feeling well or want to talk about something like your father's death, I am—” 

“Don't try to decipher me, psych drop out, ” Hamlet snapped. 

“I'm getting my doctorate, Hamlet. I just switched colleges.” Guildenstern sighed. “I just want to help.”

“Why are you two really here? I know they don't like you staying here at all.”

“For you, of course.” Rosencrantz grimaced. “Why else?” 

“Oh, nothing.”

“We've come to tell you that the theater group has agreed to put on a special performance for us in a few days. We can always go tell your mother that you aren't coming.”

“Wait, a theater group? As in acting?” Hamlet’s attention was caught.

“Yeah? What else would they be?” Rosencrantz gave a nervous laugh. 

“Where are they?” 

“The theater down on Gillard Street.” Rosencrantz took a step back. “Hamlet, watch what you're doing.”

Hamlet looked down. At his feet the shards of a nearby mirror has expanded and shaped itself into roses, complete with tiny thorns. They grew like vines around his feet and travelled towards his two friends. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled and broke out of them, the sound of shattering glass echoed in the silence. “I've got to go.”

“See ya,” Rosencrantz called out quietly. 


	5. The Hawk

When Guildenstern and Rosencrantz saw Hamlet again, he was sitting in the audience, staring at his family and friends enter. When they saw him again, bright green dragonflies buzzed around his head, fading away when the house lights went on. When they saw him again, Ophelia sat beside him and held out her pinky—an unheard promise that would be fulfilled in the most unlikely of ways. 

Horatio walked in and sat by them, speaking of times that they almost forgot. Trust ran smoothly with Horatio as the shades of his magic. He trusted them as they did him. 

“Do it again,” Rosencrantz smiled, watching Horatio turn over faint dolphins and fish in his hands.

“Why is your magic such a beautiful hue?” Guildenstern asked. 

“I have theories, but I believe it is because of my mother.”

“What do you mean?” He asked again. 

“It's easier to seen in the dark and at night, but there are actually little specks of light in my magic that look like galaxies. It's why it glows so brightly despite the bright lights.”

“I thought it was because you are a ray of sunshine.”

“I only act like that, Rosencrantz, when you keep making sex jokes.”

“It's to cope with my fleeting happiness and plentiful self-doubt.” Rosencrantz shrugged, laughing as he did. 

“What's this have to do with your mother?” Guildenstern placed his hand onto Rosencrantz’s back. 

“She thanked the stars every night as a child, never failing a day. She would watch every meteor shower, spoke to every planet, and held genuine respect for the night sky. She told me that she loved sneaking out and telling the sky about her day or the new people she met. When she became pregnant with me, a star fell from the sky. It was smaller than it should have been and fell straight towards her, stopping right before her eyes. Then, it vanished. She told me I was born with the stars in my eyes and I used to entertain myself with moving blue light across the room. At night, she saw my room turn into the night sky.”

“Does magic work outside the conscious?” Rosencrantz asked, earning a scoff from the involuntary scene oc. 

“Yes, but she said it wasn't me.”

“Than who was it?” Rosencrantz continued, but Horatio shook his head. 

The lights dimmed and the actors came out—the scene was a birthday party, the gift was a bluetooth. Horatio groaned and looked on as Hamlet’s uncle got up in horror. The scene was no longer just the actor falling over dead, but a family scandal of immense proportion. Horatio waited for everyone to leave before approaching Hamlet. 

“Did you see Claudius’ face. He was drenched in his own sweat and guilt.” Hamlet clasped Horatio's arms and grinned. 

“So, what now? Are you gonna kill him?”

“No,” Hamlet scowled, “I will let heaven take its course.”

Horatio placed his hand on Hamlet's neck and pressed their heads together. “I love you, you know that right?” 

“What's bringing this on?” 

“Ophelia told me she overheard you talking to yourself before you two played your jokes on your families. Hamlet, no matter how hard it gets, promise me that you will keep me by your side.”

“No one, I repeat, no one could ever take me from you.” Hamlet held him closely and took a deep breath in. 

“Everything will change now, won't it?” Horatio mumbled in a way that felt more like a sigh of a house settling or a tree groaning under pressure. 

“I have no doubt.” They let go of each other and stood there, staring. 

“Are we going to ever talk about—” 

“Hamlet!” Guildenstern and Rosencrantz ran into the room. 

“You're mother wants to speak with you. She's at home.” Guildenstern announced before pushing Rosencrantz back out. 

“Thank you. I'll be right there.” Hamlet turned to Horatio. As the others left, he muttered in anger, “She couldn't even text me.”

“Come on, let's just get out of here,” Horatio shook his head and lead the way. 


	6. Hunting a Heron as the Songbird Sings

Hamlet sulked into the house, Horatio close behind him. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern sat lazily on the couch, giving them a glance. Concern riddled their eyes but no words were spoken between the two parties. Hamlet huffed and walked straight past them. However, they flinched back and looked towards Horatio, who was long gone. 

On the other hand, Hamlet felt as though the magic he held within his very essence was not enough to harm them, even unintentionally. He knew better, however. He knew very well of the fragments of reality twisting around him in harmony with the anger that swelled within him. He father once warned him about the dangers of letting his emotions get ahold of him for it could take away the gift he was born with. Even then, he laughed it off. Now, he wasn't so sure. 

So he stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The image of his father flickered, forcing his eyes open once more. His gaze fell just below the window, on yet another misplaced mirror shard. He gently picked it up and turned it in the palm of his hand. The sun illuminated it, he followed its reflection towards his mother's room. Hamlet took another deep breath and listened closely to two voices bickering back and forth. Without thinking, he took a step forward and the speaking stopped. Anger returned to him and he reached for the door. 

Gertrude, his mother, opened the door with such haste that she coiled back in fear of her son standing directly in front of her. 

“My god, Hamlet, do not scare me like that.”

“I apologize, Mother. I did not expect to be summoned indirectly.”

“I tried to call but it didn't go through. Your friends are quick to respond, however.” Gertrude took a step back. 

“Oh, I'm sure that's the reason.”

She bared her teeth, “And what,  _ young man _ , is that suppose to mean?”

“Why am I here,  _ Mother _ ?”

“Your father is offended by your little,” she waved her hand in the air as if words floated around her, hiding the one she wanted, “your little charade.”

“My father? You mean the pig you bedded like a whore as soon as my father was out of the picture.”

“Hamlet!” Gertrude shrieked. 

“My father, I have not offended. You offended him by marrying that cow fucker of an uncle and now you  _ dare _ , you dare try to insult me by calling him my father whom  _ I  _ offend.”

“Hamlet, please,” she called out meekly, holding out her hand to him to hold his arm in comfort as she had done so many times before. Hamlet wouldn't have it. 

“Don't touch me,” he spat, harshly pushing her back with a burst of wind. “I can hardly look at you.”

At the sound of her distress, a voice called out for help from behind a curtain near the door. The overcast hid the man well, until he called out for help once more. Hamlet grasped at the shard it his hand reminded once more of its presence there and rushed at the curtain, digging the broken mirror into the man behind the curtain. 

“Hamlet what have you done?” Gertrude hesitantly crossed the room. 

“Committed murder. What the hell does it look like?” Hamlet tutted, reaching down to unveil the true face of the wizard of oz. “I just hope it's the right one.”

He sighed, heavily, “Alas, it is a raisin that lived far past its days.”

“Hamlet,” Gertrude swallowed and spoke slowly, “who did you want to kill?”

“Why! A heron, did you not know?! Sometimes I spot them this time of year, but my hunt is taking quite a long time.” Hamlet paused, “or perhaps, I am hunting a blue jay that is pretending to be a heron. They do take over nests and eat baby birds, you know. Could. Be.”

His vision flickered and he found himself once more in the forested castle. This time, the room he stood it seemed suspiciously like his mother's room. 

Hamlet closed his eyes and tried to steady himself, but he was drawn towards the image of his mother, dressed in a gorgeous crown. The leaves of her crown folded over each other as if they bloomed into flowers rather than adorned the trees that canopied them. It was the crown of a queen, not of the former wife of a businessman and the wife of a conman. Polonius, the raisin, still dead, had thorns crawling over him where the curtain once was. 

He heard no sound. Yet a voice rang out. 

“Kill Claudius.”

“Kill Claudio?” Hamlet looked about the room, finally seeing his father in his spiritual glory. 

“Claudius. My betrayer and once beloved brother.”

“I will father.”

“Oh, my god, he's crazy.” Gertrude’s figure seemed to say, but no melody came from her mouth. 

Hamlet felt his chest tighten, his father's gaze became too much. “I will father,” he repeated. Looking down at his hands, he saw elegant rings shimmer away, as if he too accessorised madly. 

“Hamlet?” 

“Yes mother?” He looked up at her, plainly as she stood. 

“Should I call for a doctor or perhaps your friends?”

“And why should you do that?”

She frowned deeply, “because you are  _ mad _ . You murder a sweet old man and then speak to nothing!” 

“I am not mad, Mother. I am as sane as I always was. To think I am insane would be to say I am as sane as you are. Gather your wits, for all of our sake.” Hamlet yanked the curtain down and began to wrap Polonius’ body with it. “Claudius as well, I guess.”

“What are you doing?”

“I am disposing of a man the reaper forgot about for quite a long time.” He tied a knot. “Don't forget, I am taking a trip to england with those fiends you call my friends, for they seem to prefer licking boots to being honest.”

Gertrude said nothing.

“Sweet dreams,” He smiled and slammed the door behind him. Perhaps the flowers needed a bit of fertilizer—a thought that danced on his brain as he dragged the body down the hall. 


	7. Dinner?

“Where?” Hamlet paused for a moment, examining his levitating ring, dancing among the neon dragons—weak magic made of an idle mind, but the frustration in his face faded as he let it slip onto his finger hobbit style. He studied Rosencrantz’ and Guildenstern’s faces for a moment before speaking. “Well, watching the very roots of this pitiful world grow.”

“I don't understand.” Rosencrantz twisted the skin around his knuckles.

“Of course you don't!” Hamlet laughed, jumping onto his chair. “You only understand the pubescent mind and crude men. No, he is, as they say, feeding the worms.”

“You buried him?” Guildenstern gently placed his arm around Rosencrantz. 

“In a way, I'd say he buried himself. Wasn't quite hard to do. Sprinkle a little here, sprinkle a little there.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Hamlet?” Guildenstern asked, repulsed.

Hamlet paused and straightened himself. He pulled back his shoulders and held his chin high, jaw clenched and eyes glaring down in a self-restrained contemplation. Finally, he exhaled and brought himself down to their level, a terrible grin spread across his face. 

“I find myself in quite the situation. You see, as I understand it, I should ask you the same question. As I see it, I never had it.”

“Had what?” Rosencrantz’s voice was barely audible. 

“Your loyalty, your friendship.” Hamlet jumped off the chair. “I am not a fool. How can I trust you without trusting myself? My uncle is paying you! You wouldn't be allowed to even breathe in the general direction of this house otherwise!”

“Paying us? I do not understand.” 

“You never did.” A sort of sorrow lifted and cracked in Hamlet's voice as lightning does in a distant storm. 

“Just, please, Hamlet, come with us. Tell your uncle where you hid the body.” Rosencrantz hesitantly reached out his hand for Hamlet to take. 

“I love speaking to that brick wall! Let's make haste.” He, instead of taking Rosencrantz’s hand, separated the two men and strolled to the door. There he waited, almost as if he knew where Claudius hid himself. 

The two he left behind to stare slowly began walking until they were in front of Hamlet. Which at that point, Guildenstern intertwined his fingers with Rosencrantz’s and led them to Claudius’ private office. 

Claudius sat inside, as if one could pace the floor while staying still. He grimaced at the boys as they walked in--his words floating through the air as in unsung discord, only to reveal themselves with the presenting of Hamlet. 

“Where is Polonius?” 

“At dinner.” Hamlet shrugged, finding more interest in the worn books on the shelves than the glare of his uncle. 

“Where?” Claudius raised his expression ever so slightly. 

“Not where he eats, but where he is eaten.” There was more to be said, but Hamlet waved it off, pulling a book to draw his attention elsewhere. 

“I ask again, where is Polonius?” 

“I'm heaven, I suppose. Send someone after him, but if he's not there, you can check the other place yourself.” Hamlet snapped the book shut and tossed it over his shoulder, slinging himself across the chair beside him. “And if you still can't find him, ask the flowers by the entrance, though I know you have trouble connecting with nature. Perhaps you can finally use your senses.”

Claudius pointed to the door and directed the men behind him, “Find him.”

As they left Hamlet sneered, “He'll be waiting.” 

“Perhaps we should send you on your trip earlier than expected. For your safety, of course.” Claudius opened his notebook and began writing. “We will handle this situation with diligence while you are out of the threat of consequence.”

“Good!” Hamlet clasped his hands together. “I will make haste then. Bye, Mother!”

Hamlet gave a cocky bow, his mother holding herself steady. He gracefully swept himself out the door and brought himself back to his room. The warmth of the sun brushed his nose as he stood by it to open his closet. A suitcase, worn down by years of use, laid before him. He already packed, a month ago. Satisfied, he reached into the pocket of one of his coats and pulled out a match box. The flame sparked a bit and he ran the match across the box, lighting an auburn candle that waited patiently on dresser. 

Jingling drew his attention to the old dog rising from his bed. Rex jumped down and nudged his leg. Hamlet smiled, a weariness pulled over him as he knelt to pet the dog. 

“I'm just gonna be a while, I promise.” Hamlet’s voice quivered.

“Will you keep it?”

Hamlet looked up. Horatio stood at the door, holding it for the dog to rush out before gently closing it behind him. Then came a heavy sigh. He pressed his head against the door and spoke again. “Will you only be a while? Do you truly promise?” 

Hamlet slowly stood up and took a step forward, only stopping when Horatio spun around. 

“Why do I feel like I'm going to lose you?”

“You're not.” Hamlet gently took him in his arms.

“I saw them find the body. This will be traced back to you eventually. And then what? I'm going to lose you one way or another. Leaving isn't going to put you out of harm's way.”

“You're trembling.” 

“I'm scared, Hamlet. You murdered someone.” Obscured by the hug, Hamlet could tell by the irregular movements that Horatio was beginning to cry. “It was Ophelia's father of all people. Why would you do that?” 

“I thought it was my uncle.” Hamlet sighed.

“Are you, are you trying to kill him?” 

“Yes,” Hamlet swallowed. 

“Why?” 

“Because,” Hamlet closed his eyes, “because my father asked me to avenge him.”

“What the fuck, Hamlet?” Horatio let go and fumbled behind him for the edge of the bed. He slumped down and out his head in his hands and wept. “There are other ways. There are other ways.”

Hamlet felt beside himself. Tears ran down his face, yet he couldn't feel a thing aside from the stinging of his eyes. Horatio didn't say a word, but Hamlet still felt all that could be pierce his heart. He knelt down beside him and took his hand, Horatio folding down on himself and grasping Hamlet's hand tighter than ever before.

“If all that you say is true,” Horatio tensed, “then I will lose you. If they have the resources to hide a murder, to keep their name clear, then they'll kill you. They can and they will. They're gonna take you away from me for good. They'll kill you.” He began to mutter absent-mindedly, quietly rocking back and forth to the beat of his crying. 

Hamlet reached up and gently placed his free hand against the side of Horatio's face. “No one will take you from me. No matter what happens, I will always be by your side. No one will take me from you. I'm not going to die. Not now, and not by my Uncle's hand.”

He climbed up onto the bed and wrapped himself in Horatio's arms. Sharp pain ran up his body and the fear of all he suppressed spilled out.

“I'll go with you, to England.”

“No, stay here with Ophelia. She's going to need you more.”

“I can't leave you,” Horatio whispered. 

“They can't kill me if I'm out of their reach.” Hamlet closed his eyes. He could feel Horatio let out a sigh and kiss his forehead.

“Be safe.” Horatio whispered, hesitantly pulling away. 

Hamlet opened his eyes: Horatio was gone, the door wide open, the candle no longer held its flame. 

 


	8. The Ship

It wasn't being on a boat that bothered Hamlet, rather it was the idea of waiting that drew his attention to pacing between his two friends, though by this point they were rather undesirable company than remotely familiar. 

“Will you please just,” Guildenstern threw out his hands, staggering as if physically holding back his words, getting quieter, “just sit down. Relax. Read or just watch the water go by.”

“I heard some people saw whales,” Rosencrantz added, though he kept his distance. 

“Whales,” Hamlet laughed bitterly, “I'm sure.”

“I heard commotion earlier.” Guildenstern paused, seeing no reaction he continued, “I went to check on you, but as I approached, Horatio walked past me. He looked like he'd been crying. Did you have a row?” 

Hamlet looked up at him blankly. True, his mind was focused on Horatio and getting back to him, but the anger within him proved greater. With a stale and steady voice, he spoke. “Why do you insist on fooling around in business that does not concern you?”

Guildenstern lifted his head slightly. “I was just going to say that if you did, we could look for something to gift to him to try and mend things. We would just have to go after we deliver a letter to your uncle's business partner.”

“Go without me,” Hamlet waved him off. He sat down and began to fold magic in his hands. The pale light flickered and died rather quickly, causing the man to scoff and cross his arms in defeat. 

“He wants to see you as well.”

“Why?” 

“Didn't say.” Guildenstern shrugged. 

“This letter, it's sealed?” Hamlet leaned back stared up at the gathering clouds. 

“Yes. It's confidential.”

“Of course.” A pause. “Do you know the contents?” 

“No, it's—” 

“Confidential.” Hamlet rolled his eyes. 

“Of course.” Guildenstern sighed. He leaned against the railing.

“Do you think it'll rain?” Rosencrantz spoke up. 

“Nah,” Guildenstern peered up at the sky then gave a meek smile towards Rosencrantz. In a blink, Rosencrantz’s whole disposition shifted ever so slightly—he held himself as one would when attempting to transform into a feather. He nodded his head towards the group of tourists gathered to dance to the tune of an old accordion. The two left Hamlet to sway amidst the melodies.

Hamlet, however, did not leave them. With the coming storm he pulled a deep breath of air and exhaled steadily. For an organized and reliable man, Guildenstern was careless when guarding messages. Claudius should have known better to send a paper letter to a colleague. Then again, Claudius knew not the faults of men he denied his presence to. Thus, two mistakes made gave Hamlet the eye to spy the precious message from the pocket of Guildenstern’s coat. 

Night fell, as did sleep on the inhabitants of the boat. Bitterly, Hamlet sank into the shadows, no longer able to blend fully into the world that shifted around him. He slipped onto the deck, the storm growing closer. There he took another strong breath and with the wind, watched as the letter fall from the still dancing Guildenstern’s pocket. Lively as the night was, the curiosity of all around him drew into the letter, one gust of wind to present it before Hamlet's feet. 

He slipped back to the comfort of his room. 

Comfort didn't find him there as he pried open the seal, nor did the words give him relief. As he feared—as Horatio feared—he pulled out a piece of paper from his suitcase and began to write. Finding himself satisfied, he sealed the new letter with his right and snuck back out into the night. 

As wind did retrieve the letter, so did it bring it back to the feet of Guildenstern. However, only Rosencrantz took notice of it once it spoke beneath his foot. 

“Can't let this get away,” he gasped, quickly retrieving it. 

“I thought I zipped my pocket, guess not.” Guildenstern shrugged. 

Hamlet returned to his room, allowing sleep to give him some peace. He awoke in his mind, finding himself exactly where he was, yet a loud disturbance brought his feet to fall upon the ground and head towards the door. Opening it, the world gave no notice of his presence. Instead, it was plunged into chaos—fighting between the crew, the guests, and if his eyes did see as clear as they could: pirates. 

Magic, Hamlet believed, was not something that could be had, but rather borrowed. He forgot this belief many times, only to recall it in the presence of great excitement—when nature chose to expel large sums of itself into mortal sight. He saw it with his father by the docks, when life danced in childish wonder before his eyes, taking the form of creatures that dwelled beyond their minds’ comprehension. 

So, naturally, it was pirates. With luck, they would be his means of escape—if they were tangible, that is. 

Hamlet swept by, courage fast at his heels. He could see the old ship, steady by his ship's side. It was a whim, a very careless, risky whim.

Regardless, he jumped. 

His feet touched the ground. So, he did what anyone would do and he hid, only to reveal himself when the ship distanced itself from where Hamlet was meant to be. 

He had only one request, though magic travels fast—letters sent ahead to the one he trusts before they deliver him home. 

Perhaps magic travels a little too fast, but who was he to keep them waiting?

 


	9. The Stone Bird

Quietly, snow fell across the forlorn graveyard, masking the fallen leaves in dust.

“If things don't work out,” Hamlet mused, “I should become a gravedigger. They are without remorse or sorrow. He's singing! I have never been so content to do it while working!”

“He's used to it, that's all,” Horatio responded. The wind whipped around them, stirring up the fragmented leaves. He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked back at Hamlet—eyes wild with wonder and anticipation. 

Hamlet crouched, picking up a skull from the mountain of dirt and broken wood. “Horatio, hey, hey, Horatio. Look.”

“Oh, gross!” Horatio shielded his eyes.

“It's got a tongue.” Hamlet snickered. “He probably had a beautiful voice and sang like a politician!” 

“Put it back before you're cursed.”

“Pah! The tongue can't speak curses without lips.” He tossed it back and dug for another, pulling out part of an arm. “Hey, Horatio.”

“What, you weirdo?”

“I would give you a hand but…”

“Put it back!” 

Horatio pulled Hamlet back up to his feet and adjusted his bag before walking before Hamlet.

“Awwww, Horatio,” Hamlet swooped up a skull and did a mini-jog up to him. He unsteadily placed the skull on Horatio's shoulder and tried to make it talk. “Don't you love me?” 

“Less and less, it seems.”

Hamlet popped his lips as he pressed the skull against Horatio’ cheek and tossed it aside. 

“Ugh, that's so gross. Why are there many bones anyway?” 

“Um, spring cleaning?” Hamlet offered, linking his arm with Horatio's. 

“It's winter.”

“But we are in a graveyard. Let's ask that guy.”

“Hamlet, no don’t—” Horatio groaned, yet he was too late.

“Dear sir.”

“Hamlet, stop.” Horatio hissed beneath his breath, but Hamlet continued.

“Why are there so many unearthed bodies? Whose grave are you digging?”

“Mine, sir.” The gravedigger laughed against the clatter of the trees.

“No.” Hamlet cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted across the empty graveyard. He looked at the tiny stone bird that sat on the partially hidden gravestone. “What man is to be buried here?”

“No man, a woman, but a body all the same.”

“I see, now who’s skull is this?”

“A fool’s,” the gravedigger responded, “though a fool’s fool was he. He was the yesman of the former Hamlet.” He lowered his voice, “But between you and me? His son got sent off because he was crazy—should fit in over there.”

“Indeed?”   
“Horatio, let’s go that way, I’ve grown bone dry with this graveyard.”

“You are really pushing it,” Horatio sighed and followed the path to a shaded hill, where trees began to speckle into a forest. The branches bowed, creating both bench and barricade for the two boys to sit. Horatio was the first to sit and took great advantage from it, reclining as if the summer sun peaked across the sky and not the fragile ice of winter snow. Hamlet, when placing his knee on the bench, spotted something between the breaks of the trees.

“Horatio look,” Hamlet whispered, “look it’s Laertes. He’s a good man, what trouble has brought him here?”

“I know not,” Horatio groaned and pulled himself up.

“And look, there are my mother and my uncle.”

“What grave?”   
“The open one, they are lowering a casket.” Hamlet squinted. “Why is he—No, it can’t be.” 

“What do you mean?” Horatio swallowed, seeing Laertes leap into the now occupied grave, “Oh, no.”

“Fuck is he doing,” Hamlet suddenly threw himself off the bench, the trees quivered away from his path, unwinding and disrupting the quiet sanctuary they had for just a moment. Horatio fumbled behind him, the peace disrupted in his mid as well, watching the unstoppable force before him. Hamlet pushed past the small crowd and hopped right into the grave as well.

“ _ You _ ,” Leartes snarled, his ponytail bouncing with the fury of his head jerking up toward Hamlet. He leaped at him and dug his nails into Hamlet’s throat.

“Get your hands off me! You’d fail if you tried to fight me.”

“Pull these two idiots apart,” Claudius told the man beside him through gritted teeth.

“Hamlet? Hamlet!” His mother covered her mouth.

Claudius’ men jumped into the grave and struggled to pull the two boys apart. They thrashed about as Horatio broke into the scene.

“Keep your mouth shut,” he hissed quietly, but Hamlet didn’t hear.

Instead, he snapped back at Laertes, “I’m down to fight, man, if you want to fight.”

“Why would you fight him?” Gertrude shook her head.

“I have done more for Ophelia, loved her more, and he has the  _ nerve _ to morn so intensely for her?”

“Hamlet, be reasonable!” she called back. “Just go back to the house.”

“Fine, fine.” Hamlet threw his arms up. He climbed out of the graves and made his way through the parting crowd.

“Keep an eye on him,” Claudius addressed Horatio who took a hesitant step back. With the crowd dispersing with their leader’s reign, he did a quick jog up to Hamlet and walked with him. He glanced back at the gravedigger, now filling the hole meticulously. Behind the stranger, the stone bird took flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick chapter.   
> Hopefully, I will finish this story before the summer starts


	10. A walk and a talk and an end

“Do you remember why I asked to meet with you?” Hamlet spoke, his voice brittle.

“Do I remember it?” Horatio took a deep breath and steadily kept pace behind his boyfriend.

“Well, while I was on the boat, I could not sleep very well. So, naturally, I slipped out. The letter…they meant to kill me, Horatio. My uncle was using them as couriers to deliver me to my execution and they were to collect the blood money."

"Surely that can't be—" 

"True?" Hamlet stopped and looked around. The forest path was old and grown over, but they walked it a thousand times before and would do so once more—Horatio's car was destroyed, after all. Still, it felt like the trees had ears and the graves were no better. He led Horatio a little ways in before he spoke again. "I read it with my own eyes. They were going to turn me over to my uncle's shady men and murder me on the spot. Here is the paper! It's best not to read it here." 

"What." Horatio took the letter and carefully placed it in his coat pocket. He looked up at the cloudy, canopied sky and sighed heavily before looking back at Hamlet. "What did you do?" 

"I forged a new one. They'll never do us any wrong ever again." 

"You sent them to die?" 

"More or less." Hamlet shrugged.

"Claudius has really fucked you over."

"Claudius fucked my mom, is what he did. He killed my father, fucked my mom, stolen everything from me…I only regret putting my anger on Laertes."

"It was quite pathetic," Horatio let out a laugh, nudging his arm.

"You're joking, was it?"

"That depends," Horatio let out a laugh. Suddenly he paused and turned toward a young man who cautiously hurried up the path. "Who are you?" 

"Welcome back," the young man proclaimed. He stopped to adjust his tie.

"Thank you." Hamlet gave a small smile toward the man but through his teeth he whispered to Horatio, "Do you know the worm?" 

"Noooo clue." Horatio whispered back. 

"Lucky. He's rich so my uncle invites him over for dinner more times than I can stomach. He's worse than the interns."

"I have a message from your faaaath-unnn-uncle?" 

"He has my number," Hamlet sneered. 

"Voicemail, sir. It went straight to voicemail."

"I see, then I will cling to every word like my life depends on it."

"You see, a young man by the name of Laertes has returned and he, if I do say so myself, if quite the perfect picture of a gentleman and he is awfully kind and—" 

"Please," Hamlet scoffed, "don't hurt yourself. I am aware he is quite the epitome of man and all who compare are pale relocations of—" 

"Enough, you'll make his brain hurt," Horatio whispered. 

"What is the point of this?" Hamlet cleared his throat. 

"I know you are not ignorant—" 

"Thank you. I am glad you are aware of my education." Hamlet laughed. Snow shook from the leaves above them. "You were saying?"

"I know you are not ignorant of how amazing Laertes is."

"No, you sang his praises well enough."

"Fencing, sir, I mean his fencing?" 

"Oh! Did you hear that, Horatio? Laertes has taken up fencing? Does he paint them too?" 

The two men snickered while the short stranger cleared his throat. 

"Your…uncle has placed a bet that Laertes could defeat you in fencing. The stage is all set, if you should accept the challenge."

"So what exactly is this challenge?" Hamlet mused. 

"Laertes will not hit you more than three times in twelve rounds."

"And if he does, he wins?" Hamlet frowned. He glanced at Horatio who simply shook his head. "And if I say no?" 

"To playing against Laertes? We could always arrange another opponent for you." The poor man looked very confused and Hamlet couldn't help but sigh. 

"Fine,but not right now. I was enjoying my walk. Set everything up and if they still want to do it after I am, I'll be there. If I lose, I lose very little, so I might as well do it."

"I'll tell them right away!" The man shot off, back where he came. 

"Ridiculous," Hamlet scoffed. They walked together for a while in silence. The path as riddled with thorns and roots, but did nothing against the rhythm of their footsteps. 

"I have a bad feeling about this. I doubt you will win." Horatio finally spoke. He flashed Hamlet a worried look. 

"I'll be fine. I've been practicing, after all."

"You don't seem fine."

"No, even though I believe I'll win, I've got this sinking feeling in me."

"Then just don't go." Horatio stopped. He took Hamlet's hands in his own. "Just stay. For once just stay. I'll, I'll tell them you're sick!" 

"Don't. I'll be fine. Whatever happens will happen. I don't believe in gut feelings."

At this, Horatio raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. Hamlet kissed him on the nose and let go, leading them up toward the edge of the forest and the road. A sleek black car lay waiting at the side of the road. A man stepped out to open the doors of the two and once they hopped in, the car sped away toward the property. 

It took no time to be led from the car to the door, down one hallway to the next. They were showed into a large open room where tables and chairs full of guests were surrounding a fencing floor. Horatio gave Hamlet a quick squeeze on his arm before taking his place in the back of the room, close to Hamlet's mother. Hamlet, on the other hand, entered the main floor and stood once more before Laertes. The two men shook hands before Hamlet decided to speak. 

"I'm sorry, Laertes, that I lashed out at you. Truth be told, I have not been in the best state lately and have been suffering from an unknown mental illness. I projected that stress and frustration onto you when it was clearly the worst possible place for me to do that. For all that and more, I apologize."

Laertes looked him in the eyes for a moment and frowned. "I have every reason to hate you, after what you did to both my sister and my father. I will accept your apology, but my honor and my reputation will not. Not until this is over."

"Fair enough," Hamlet shrugged, picking up a rapier, "But you will look like you are fighting a child with how bad I am this."

"Are you mocking me?" 

"No?" 

"Are you aware of what's happening?" Claudius asked Hamlet as the two took their positions.

"You sound like my teachers. Of course I do, do you? Rex could have made a better bet then you."

The two began, fluidly moving and fighting as if it were the natural thing to do. Hamlet could feel the adrenaline flow through his veins and the feeling he felt in the woods came back it was heavy in his stomach like the sort of sadness felt when visiting a place long since forgotten. It was an almost nostalgic yearning that could have turned his blood colder than the adrenaline. It felt like old magic, the kind he felt in the woods when he saw his father's ghost. He heard the call of his uncle to drink but he simply waved it off. Perhaps the wine would worsen the feeling. 

"Come, wipe the sweat away from your eyes," Gertrude called out. He walked over and took the towel from her hands. As he wiped his face her heard her say, "I'll drink to your health." 

"Thank you," he replied. 

"Gertrude, don't drink that."

"Don't tell me what to do!" She hissed and took a defiant sip of the glass.

Hamlet smiled a bit, "I'll drink in a little bit." He put the towel on the table and headed back to the center. Once more, the two men began to fence.

"I'm not a child, Laertes. Don't hold back."

"Oh? I thought you said you were." He struck Hamlet, only to be struck in return.

"Too much," Claudius mumbled, "Seperate them."

"But I'm not down yet!" Hamlet announced in protect. The sound of his mother collapsing caught his attention and the two fencers dropped their weapons. Hamlet looked at Laertes who just now noticed his wound, panic overcoming the proud man. 

Horatio rushed to the floor and grabbed onto Hamlet. "You're hurt?" 

"My mother? How is my mother?" 

"She fainted from the blood," Claudius announced. 

"No! It was the wine! The wine was poisoned!" Gertrude struggled to regain herself. She mumbled to herself before growing limp against the tile floor. 

"Lock the doors! There's a murderer in here, " Hamlet ordered. 

"I'm sorry, it was I."

"Who said that?" Hamlet spin around. 

Laertes held himself as best as he could. "The very weapons he held were poisoned and I fell victim to my own revenge. You and I? We're dead men. Killed each other. We're poisoned. Your mother's poisoned. Claudius is to blame."

"Poison?" Hamlet could barely speak the word. The very thing—the very person—that killed his father now killed three people in the room and he was one of them. He lifted the blade back from the ground and thrust it into his uncle before anyone could protest. He then took the wine his mother drank and forced it to his uncle's lips. "Then work. Drink."

"He deserved that," Laertes half-laughed. "I forgive you, Hamlet, for the deaths of myself and my father if you forgive me for yours. We were never responsible." The thump of his body hitting the floor was dull and plain, muffled by the frantic shuffling of the guests. 

"What a pleasant thought," Hamlet mumbled but grew into an angry shout, "And you mindless bastards who watch, horrified of what you let go on. If I had the time I'd let you have it. Whatever. Horatio, you're alive. Tell them what happened."

"No, I can't. I'm not like that." Horatio shook his head. He shook as he picked up the goblet of wine that long since clattered to the ground. 

"No, give that to me," Hamlet demanded, reaching for the cup. "Give it to me. I swear I will take it from you. Give it to me or put it down. I will not have you die on me. If you need a compromise live long enough to tell my story, but please…" Hamlet cupped his hands over the opening of the goblet and gently lowered it before it could touch Horatio's lips. "If you love me you won't die so soon after me."

He didn't need to hear the cup clatter against the cold ground to know if slipped from Horatio's grip. He could barely feel himself hit the floor, but the cold grip of death touched his cheek on impact and began to spread up his body from his side.

"I'm dying. I really am dying. I won't hear the news of England or give Fortinbras my vote for the company or—" 

"Hamlet, please just stay with me."

A weary hand gently rose to the side of Horatio's face and fell limp onto Hamlet's chest. There was no light in his glassy eyes, no slight smile or hint of spark. There was no snowfall or dragonflies or birds. But he was cold like the branches of the trees, cold like the tiled floor or a glass window, cold like metal, cold like death.

 


	11. Optional Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An optional ending that is very much the real ending but can also very much not be if you so choose. Optional only because I could not decide if I wanted it to be the final ending.  
> So I chose both.

The words that drifted from his lips did not feel like his own, yet felt so familiar. The movements he made afterward they all felt so familiar. And yet something still did not sit right. 

The feeling was not easily contained and followed to his little blue home with the wrought iron fence. It followed him with letters stuck between the doors and through the mail slot. Books lined the shelves, but they've been untouched for years. Nonfiction became fiction, words became twisted. All the pieces were there, everything fit, but some lies were more viable than the truth. It was as if he'd been living in a liminal space—he'd go about his days as if all of that was a story told to him by a passerby. 

But as Horatio sat at his desk, the winter snow began to fall. He cracked the window earlier that day, as even the winter sun was too hot sometimes. He'd forgotten about it, of course, as he carefully wrote letters of business and his daily journal entry. A small candle lit his workspace—the power was still out from the storm the night before—and he watched it flicker a bit before it went out.

With a heavy sigh he light another match, but that too went out. He tried again to no avail, finally noticing the window. Horatio got up and shut it, turning around to find the candle lit as if never went out. Sitting back down, he picked up his pen and watched the light go out once more. He groaned and put the pen down. As he did, the candle relit itself.

"You've got to be joking," Horatio whined. He blew out the candle and got up. A chill ran down his spine as a breeze blew in from the direction of the closed window. He walked over and felt around its edges. Nothing. He shook his head and walked over to his bed, but as he passed his desk the candle relit itself.

Upon reaching the desk, he noticed something that wasn't there before. A purple dragonfly, nearly identical to the ones he use to make, rested on the letters. He forgot about them—his idle daydreams. Perhaps his work was beginning to drain him. Still, he instinctively reached out and touched it. It felt real, but vanished as soon as his fingers let go.

He could feel his chest tighten as the breeze blew once more against the back of his neck and brush against the side of his cheek. Horatio quickly wiped away the strange tears that felt the need to fall as he sat down on the edge of his bed.

He once believed his boyfriend could do things like that—things no other human could do such as bend the forest to his will or give life to that which had none. These were just daydreams and wild imaginations, like characters in his books, but they felt so real to him. But they weren't, were they? After all, his boyfriend died in a car crash when they were in college. Now his spirit goes to where the wind blows. So why did it feel so wrong? 

 


End file.
